


Devices

by okapi



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Awesome Mrs. Hudson, BAMF Billy/Archie, BAMF Mrs. Hudson, Breeding stand, Cock Rings, Corporal Punishment, Demon Moriarty, Demonic Possession, Exhibitionism, F/M, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Kidnapping, Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, Mrs. Hudson Ships It, Multi, Nursing Kink, Oral Sex, Phone Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Restraints, Rimming, Strap-Ons, Threesome - F/M/M, Vaginal Sex, Vibrators, Voyeurism, recliner sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-19 06:15:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5956729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of explicit Mrs. Hudson appreciation ficlets. Chapters 1-5 are linked but can be read alone. Chapter 6 is a complete stand-alone.</p><p>1. How Sherlock Pays Off the Extras on the Rent. Mrs. Hudson/Sherlock<br/>2. Apologies. The British government gets his mouth washed out with soap. Mrs. Hudson/Mycroft <b>TW: non-con, restraints, corporal punishment</b><br/>3. Doctor FeelGood & the Herbal Soother. The hip is atrocious. Mrs. Hudson/John<br/>4. Y Señora Hudson También. Mrs. Hudson sleeps upstairs. Sherlock/Mrs. Hudson/John & Sherlock/John<br/>5. Five Times Mrs. Hudson Called Scotland Yard & One Time Scotland Yard Called Her. Because every story needs a good old fashioned romance. Mrs. Hudson/Lestrade<br/>6. The Demon of Baker Street. MP Moriarty's six visits to 221B have nothing to do with Sherlock Holmes. Mrs. Hudson/Moriarty. Set in Sherlock's MP in TAB. <b>TW: non-con, demonic possession, one mention of eating children in pies</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How Sherlock Pays Off the Extras on the Rent

_“I’m putting this on your rent, young man!”_

* * *

“Five hundred pounds!”

“The next time you decide to analyse Camberwell mud, do so on your own sofa! It will have to be completely reupholstered. The rug will have to be replaced.”

He huffed; then his voice dropped. “There’s no other way I can compensate you? Services in-kind?”

“At the moment, I’ve no mysteries for you to solve, my dear.”

He shoved a biscuit in his mouth and chewed; his frown looked very much like the beginning of a pout. He swallowed and said petulantly, “In Florida, you said ‘no’ too. I’m clean.” He pulled a folded piece of paper from the pocket of his dressing gown and threw it on the table. “And sober. Six months.”

She took the paper and glanced at it, then set it aside. “In Florida, I was a married woman. Unhappily, death row will do that, but still married.”

“I made you a widow.”

She returned her cup to its saucer and sighed.

“I could make you a _merry_ widow.” He looked at her with an impish smile.

She was charmed, of course. With that face, who wouldn’t be? The startlingly blue eyes, the long eyelashes, the cut-glass cheekbones, the lips, oh, the lips! He was a Renaissance sculpture.

But she said sternly, “You cannot abuse the furniture, young man, and expect no consequences.”

He stood up and moved round the table and knelt in front of her. “I am willing to pay,” he kissed one nylon-covered knee, “and pay,” and then the other, “and pay, and you will have as many consequences as you desire.” He looked up at her again. “We could abuse this chair together and add it to the list of charges.”

His mouth was begging to be kissed, but she was indignant. “Do I not deserve a proper shag in a proper bed?! My kitchen chair days are over, young man!”

“Please,” he whispered. “I’ll be good. Very good.” He bowed his head and sat back on his heels.

She could not resist reaching out a hand and tousling his hair. It was so soft, so utterly pettable.

He moved forward until his head was in her lap and began to purr like the incorrigible, temperamental, delightful creature that he was.

She smiled and bent to inhale the fragrance of his shampoo and press her lips to his dark curls.

Without a word, he got to his feet and extended his hand.

She took it and let him lead her to the bedroom.

* * *

She began preparing for bed as she would any night, and he stood by, hands folded in front him, shifting from left foot to right like a schoolboy for waiting for the headmaster. He showed no signs of cooling ardour when her make-up had been washed down the drain and her dress hung neatly in the wardrobe. When she was down to her slip and underclothing, she moved to the far side of the bed and turned it down.

At that, he threw off his clothes and bounded onto the bed. She met him halfway; they were both kneeling. He took her in his arms and kissed her.

His lips tasted as delicious as they looked. Bee-stung plump and dripping honey. They kissed and kissed, the soft, wet noise the only sound in the room for some time. She ran her hands over his shoulders and back and arms. Oh, the skin of youth! So soft and supple.

He bent his head and trailed kisses down her neck. She ruffled his hair, and arrogant feline became eager puppy. He nuzzled and licked and bit at her cleavage so much that she had to pull him back by the hair—to his mournful whimpers—and reposition them flat on the bed, side by side.

He buried his head again in her bosom, and she chuckled and stroked his head. Then he pawed at the straps of her slip and bra, and she took them off and dropped them to the floor. The groan her return to his arms elicited was, well, not decent. Not decent at all.

It was all making her wet: his hot mouth on her; his neck and shoulders flexing as he angled his head to lap at her nipples; his little grunts when she finally eased her knickers off. She felt a bit empty, wanting, wanting that…

“Let me see you,” she said. He jumped to his knees and, throwing the bedclothes back, pushed his hips forward so that his cock was directly in front of her.

Now her mouth was watering. It was long and lean and flush pink. It jutted proudly from his dark curls with a slight curve to the left. “Oh my beautiful boy,” she murmured before leaning up on one hand and taking the head in her mouth.

She loved the taste of him, how he filled her, how her tongue swirled around him. She pulled off so that she could reposition herself to take more and he cried out,

“No!”

She raised up and kissed his lips and said soothingly, “Lay down, young man.”

They were on their sides again, he curled toward the head of the bed and she much lower. She held his hip firm—she did not entirely trust the eager puppy in him—and took as much as of his cock as she wanted. She sucked; he moaned. Soon, she loosened her grip on his lower half and let him thrust gently into her mouth. She pulled off when she was satisfied and gave his shaft one last lick.

“I want to watch you,” she said, nodding to the bedside table. “In the top drawer.”

Oh, he was a sight to behold as he coated his cock with the slick!

“More,” she urged, and the pleasure, she knew, was two-fold: first, the sheer wanton delight of watching that wet prick strain in his hand, his muscles tense, and his face contort with the effort; and secondly, and no less important, the ease with which he would enter her.

“Come here.” He moved closer. She took his wet fingers and brought them to her, showing him how she liked her clit teased.

He was, of course, a quick student, and soon she was coming. He swallowed her soft cry and enfolded her in his arms as the sweetness coursed through her. For a long moment, they remained in their inverted Pietà, she spent and cradled in his arms.

His Adam’s apple bobbed when she said, “Fuck me.” Then she rolled out of his arms and pulled him atop her. She spread her legs—well, one leg, she guarded the other carefully—and he angled her slightly to one side as he sank his cock into her.

It was all marvellous: his tender whispered endearments; his long, cock, thrusting; his sweat-glazed skin, which she licked with abandon. But the most marvellous part was finally getting her hands on that marvellous, marvellous arse of his!

She squeezed and kneaded and caressed his buttocks as he rut. Oh, she had known a lot of cocks in her day, but this bottom, oh, was lovely!

Lovely!

He came with a faint yelp and collapsed, but quickly rolled to the side. He sprang from the bed and returned with two small towels—not the ones she would’ve used for the purpose, but the afterglow made her extremely reluctant to criticise—and did his best to create a dry space between them. Then he curled around her just like a pet.

So she pet him and told him what a good boy he was and how much she loved him until he purred and they both fell asleep.

She opened her eyes.

* * *

“Is this what you regularly use?”

He put the vibrator against his cheek and flicked the base. The device hummed; so did he.

“Sherlock! Put that back!”

“I’m not just a chemist. I’m also a bit of an engineer. I could make you a better one. I’m sure I could. Twice the power, twice the pleasure.”

“Put. It. Back.”

“Well, don’t be surprised,” he switched it off and dropped it into the drawer, “if something much better ends up in your Christmas stocking at Christmas.”

“Speaking of Christmas, young man, if anything in that flat is damaged before the holidays, you’ll be right here,” she tapped the centre of the bed, “ _with_ the antlers.”

He closed the distance between them and kissed her lips. Then he drew back, grinning. “Promise?”

She sat up and tossed a pillow at him.

He ducked. “Oh, and the new rug will be delivered at 10.”

“Sherlock!” He really was the most incorrigible boy! “Go!”

He slipped back into his pyjamas and dressing gown. His mischievous grin turned soft, and he gave her a peck on the cheek. “Thank you.”

“For?”

“Giving me a home.” He blinked. “Saving my life.”

She smiled and patted his face. “Just returning the favour. Now, go!”

She lobbed another pillow at the doorway as he fled. Then she fell back onto the bed, stared up at the ceiling, and sighed,

“Oh, Sherlock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original offending incident of a Camberwell mud-ruined sofa was appropriated with author's permission from this [comment](http://sherlock60.livejournal.com/561605.html) on the LJ [Sherlock 60](<a%20href=). The rest of the chapter is mine.


	2. Apologies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The British government gets his mouth washed out with soap. 
> 
> This chapter includes non-con elements, kidnapping, restraining with a breeding stand, corporal punishment, anal fingering, rimming, use of cock ring, anal use of a strap-on and oral use of soap.
> 
> Not as dark as all that makes it sound, but your mileage, of course, may vary.

_“Oh, shut up, Mrs. Hudson.”_

_“MYCROFT!”_

_“Apologies.”_

_“Thank you.”_

* * *

 She heard the _tap-tap-tap_ of oxfords on stairs.

“Nine o’clock, Mister Holmes.”

He stopped and turned. “I’m sorry.”

“I expect to see you at nine o’clock.”

“I fear I’m unable to attend,” he replied stiffly. “Good day.”

* * *

Mycroft sighed and rubbed a hand down his face. “That was a very long and very arduous apology.”

“Sir, the call with the Turkish delegation is for 21:30. Shall I re-schedule?”

“No, but I will take it from my study. I’m in need of a stiff drink from my own decanter before I tackle the next crisis. That’ll be all. Good night.”

Then his world went dark.

* * *

Captive.

He was on his hands and knees, but couldn’t move.

“I won’t keep you long, Mister Holmes. I know you’re a very busy man.”

He opened his eyes and saw black leather boots. They rose to a black leather skirt, a starched white blouse, and a face looking down at him with a kind, bordering on doting, expression.

“My dear woman,” he exclaimed.

“I did say nine o’clock. I expected a man of affairs to be punctual.”

“What is the meaning of this?” He felt a chill and realised that he was wearing only his socks and shirt, which was unbuttoned. “Sherlock…?”

“And Doctor Watson are upstairs. Shall I call them? I didn’t think you’d want an audience, but one can be arranged…”

“No! Audience to what, exactly?”

She bent until they were face to face. The motherly concern was gone. She stared at him with a ruthless gleam and whispered,

“My apology. Very disrespectful, Mister Holmes. Very naughty. And naughty boys always get their comeuppance, don’t they, Mister Holmes?”

His reply was automatic. “Yes, ma’am.”

She smiled, and his body stirred, but even that felt oddly hobbled.

“I took the liberty of fitting you with a cock ring.”

His eyebrows rose sharply.

“I was afraid you’d get carried away.” Her voice fell to a low whisper. “Sometimes naughty boys do. Especially when they get their punishments, but no fear, love, once you’ve apologised properly, I’ll take it off and see to you. Properly.”

Part of him wanted to scream and shout, to use his massive intellect to free himself and have her arrested, but that part was small and growing smaller by the moment.

She smiled and brushed a hair from his forehead. He shuddered.

“Let’s get started, love. You’re busy, and I’ve got four dozen strawberry meringues to make for a church bazaar.”

“By all means,” he said. He tried to wiggle and once again found himself immobilised.

She stood and disappeared into the kitchen. “There’s all kinds of junk in the back of Mister Chatterjee’s store. Whatever does he do with a breeding stand, I wonder?”

Mycroft gulped.

“First things first. Your disrespectful mouth.” He heard the rustle of something being unwrapped and the tap running. “Open up, Mister Holmes.”

He opened his mouth and it was immediately filled with…

…a bar of soap.

He grunted a loud protest as she wiggled it in his mouth.

“Naughty mouths need washing. Don’t spit it out until I say so.”

He spit it out.

“Oh, Mister Holmes, you’re a stubborn one, aren’t you?”

She appeared in front of him with something in her hand. A whip.

_CRACK!_

At the sound, Mycroft closed his eyes and made a vain attempt to control himself.

Too late. He was already getting hard.

The soap was shoved back in his mouth.  

She disappeared again.

He felt a hand running up and down the back of his thighs while she cooed,

“Naughty boy, naughty mouth. Don’t drop it or I’ll stop.”

He took a noisy breath through his nose and curled his lips around the sour-tasting protuberance.

“Good boy.”

Her hand was still moving, up and down, caressing him. It seemed that every muscle in his body was hard, straining against all the ties that bound him, but his mind was not straining.

It was begging for more.

“Good boy. When you feel the sting, you can drop it.”

CRACK!

The soap hit the floor. He groaned as the whip pricked his bare buttocks.

CRACK! CRACK!

“I’m not a professional, of course. It’s just a silly prop, from the old days. My cowgirl number was quite the hit, once upon a time.”

“No doubt,” he said, coughing.

CRACK! CRACK!

He felt her fingers and then her mouth just where the whip had no doubt left its mark, and he knew that he would’ve come right then were it not for ring around his cock.

“The pink and white, it’s so pretty,” she said. “Just like my strawberry meringues. Do you like strawberry meringue, Mister Holmes?”

An affirmative croak was all he could manage.

She vanished again, and he was struck by a fear that did not dissipate until he heard the tap. Then there was a wet flannel gently wiping his lips and the inside cavity of his mouth.

They were face to face again. “There we go. No more being disrespectful to ladies, Mister Holmes.”

He looked into her dark eyes and said, “No, ma’am.”

She smiled a warm smile. “Such a pretty mouth.”

He hoped that she would kiss him. She did. Soft and quick. He tried to chase her lips for more, but she pulled away, chuckling.

“I want to make sure you’ve learned your lesson, Mister Holmes. No more silly props, right? We need something solid.”

As the whip fell to the floor, his mind began conjuring the myriad of alternatives. It braked abruptly when he saw it.

A wooden spoon.

“Oh, God.”

_WHACK-WHACK-WHACK-WHACK!_

His mind was drifting from his body, looking at himself from afar.

_WHACK-WHACK-WHACK-WHACK!_

It went on and on. Then it stopped.

He was still floating.

Her lips were on his. Then those dark eyes were staring at him as if waiting for an answer.

He made a noise. Whatever she wanted, she could have. Of what he had. Of what he was. A few words penetrated his fog:

“I’ll take very good care of you.”

Of that, if of nothing else, he was certain.

She did take good care of him. With her fingers and her tongue and then something harder.

Then his cock was free. He was being filled and pumped.

_Like a bitch in heat._

His words, not hers.

He came hard, decorating the floor with milky splashes.

He heard her voice and let go, drifting back into the fog, swaddled in the wisdom that he _was_ a good boy.

A very good boy.

* * *

“Was he a good boy?”

“Yes, of course. Apologised beautifully and took his punishment like a lad.”

“Her Majesty might agree with the former.”

“Do you need any help, my dear?”

“No. I’ve got him. That the rest of his clothes?”

“Yes, minus the tie, of course, it really wasn’t salvageable.”

“Of course. Anything else? Want me to clean the mess?”

“Oh, no, I’ll take care of that, but…” She dug out a catalogue, opened it to a dog-eared page, and pointed. “If it’s not too much bother. The hip, you know…”

“Ah, yes, of course. Not a problem. G’night, Aunt Martha.”

“Good night, my dear, and do tell your mother that the meringues will be ready for Sunday.”

* * *

She sighed. Her strap-on days were over. That part had been more work than fun, and she was glad that she hadn’t spent a lot of money on it, seeing as how it’d ended up in the bin with the cleaning rags.

But the tie, she’d kept. Red silk. Beautiful. The gentleman had his flaws but sartorial taste was not one of them.

She slipped into bed. Oh, the feel of the cool sheets against her bare skin!

The hip was going to kill her tomorrow, but she’d end the night the right way: red silk brushing her nipples, a well-slicked shaft humming inside her, and thoughts full of pink and white.

Just like strawberry meringue.


	3. Doctor FeelGood & the Herbal Soother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hip is atrocious.
> 
> This chapter includes sex in a sit-to-stand recliner (also called a lift chair) and referenced drug use.

She dropped to the bench, wincing.

Stupid!

She should have sent someone for it. One of the boys from the shop. Or Mrs. Turner’s lads. Or even kind Doctor Watson. But no, she had to go herself. They might have got the wrong thing, and that would’ve been no good. And when the shop didn’t have everything she needed, of course, she had to go to the other shop. The fancy one.

The hip had been throbbing since she woke. Now it was atrocious.

She sighed. She would sit here for a minute and then get a cab. It was only a few streets, but it might as well have been a hundred.

The world was rushing about her. She felt as invisible as a lamppost.

“Mrs. Hudson? Are you all right?”

Oh, good heavens! To be caught out at a moment like this!

“Doctor Watson.” She tried to smile.

“You’re in pain.”

He was not half as dim as Sherlock made out.

“It’s just the hip. I overdid myself yesterday and now I’m paying for it.”

“You should’ve given me your list. I would’ve gone for you.”

“That’s very kind of you, but…”

“I might have got the wrong thing, no? Like when Sherlock goes out for milk and comes back with buckets of mud.”

She laughed. “I’m still very cross about that.”

“Taxi?”

“Please.”

Then she was literally being swept off her feet and into a waiting vehicle.

Goodness, he was strong!

* * *

“I’m fine, Doctor Watson, really. Don’t fuss.”

He set her shopping bags on the table.

“Hey, that’s new!”

He walked into the adjoining room and stood before the brown recliner.

“Just delivered this morning. Gift from my niece. Well, when I say ‘niece,’ I mean….”

“May I?”

“Of course.” As she went about putting her purchases up, she heard a loud hum.

“Wow! This stands you right on your feet!”

She hummed.

“Don’t let Sherlock near this thing. He’ll re-wire it so it’ll rocket you through the wall into Mrs. Turner’s. Well, you sit here and let me fuss a bit. Tea?”

“No, thank you.” She let him guide her to the chair. She took up the control and sank down into the chair. Then she raised her feet.

“Do you have some kind of heating pad?”

“Right here,” she said, pulling it from the side pocket of the chair.

“Medicine?”

“I don’t like to take pills.”

“Mrs. Hudson, these kinds of aches and pains are normal for someone like you, but it doesn’t mean you need to suffer…”

“Someone like me?! You mean an old lady who can’t manage her own shopping?!”

He squat beside the chair and took her hand in his. “I mean a former dancer.” He smiled. “Good for the muscles, bad for the joints.” He kissed her hand. “Hope you don’t mind that Sherlock told me.”

He was such a kind man! Why didn’t Sherlock…? Oh bother Sherlock!

“I was quite the thing in my time,” she said.

“You are quite the thing _now_. I cannot even imagine what you were like then.”

“You don’t have to imagine. My niece helped me transfer a few old films that survived to digital form. Would you like to see a bit?”

“I’m sure you’d rather rest…”

Oh, Doctor Watson, you have no poker face at all. Two can play this particular game, sir.

“I’m sure you’ve got a lot of things to tend to…” she said, with no little coyness.

“Nothing at all,” he said. “But you stay there. Direct me, and I’ll set it up.”

* * *

“Holy Mary! You were exceedingly flexible...”

She wondered if he consciously realised that with one hand he was rubbing tender circles on the pulse of her wrist while the other was falling dangerously close to his crotch.

“..and had a very pleasing sense of rhythm,” he added. “The snake?”

“It was Florida.” Sometimes that was all you could say. “Would you like to see my Buckin’ Cowgirl number? It was by far the most popular one.”

“Yes.”

* * *

“I wouldn’t want to be on the end of that whip.”

“Really? You’d be surprised. I had quite a few takers.” She didn’t add, ‘Why just yesterday…”

He chuckled, then rubbed his flush face and shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

It was wrong to torment the poor man, but she couldn’t resist.

“Doctor,” she said in a low voice. “Would you like to see Nurse FeelGood?”

“Oh, God, yes.”

* * *

“You’re still in pain. I wish you would afford yourself of…”

“I do have something.”

“Your herbal soother? Mrs. Hudson, I am not disparaging the benefits of traditional medicine, but these products are unregulated. They could do far more harm than good.”

“It’s just a tincture. Two drops under the tongue. Try it yourself if you’re that worried!”

Oh, she was a bad woman!

“Cannabis derivatives affect me oddly. I might, uh, have designs on your virtue. Or make a complete arse of myself.”

“Really?” she teased. “That sounds diverting. Perhaps even,” he was leaning closer now, “analgesic.”

“Doctor FeelGood in the house?” he said, grinning.

She hummed.

Bad, bad, bad!

“Where is it?” he asked.

* * *

“See? No label at all! Could be anything! Ugh! Doesn’t taste like cannabis. Tastes like rotten fruit tart.”

“The original preparation is quite bitter so I mix it with essence of elderflower.”

“Here you go. Two drops?”

“Yes. Thank you, Doctor.”

“You won’t be thanking me when I tell you about my first experience with hashish. Looking back, it’s a wonder that it was a bullet in the shoulder and not that particular incident that got me discharged.”

“It started with a dark-haired beauty, I bet.”

“Indeed it did…”

* * *

They were both laughing. “Oh, Doctor, you are quite suggestible!”

“I am, aren’t I? Are you feeling better?”

“Yes. I expect it’s not having any effect at all on you.”

“On the contrary.” He leaned forward and kissed her.

And goodness, he could kiss! This was no affectionate peck. This was a zero-to-full-snog, hand-me-your-knickers-‘cause-you-aren’t-going-to-need-them-soon kiss.

Hard and hot. Clever, clever tongue.

He pulled back.

“Doctor FeelGood, indeed,” she said.

His eyes were shining. “Just wait. For your viewing pleasure only.”

* * *

Good Lord.

He was dancing and unbuttoning his shirt. Shimmying and shaking and rolling his hips. Doing his best interpretation of her own grainy-imaged performance on the screen behind him.

He was adorable.

She whooped and whistled and cat-called, the most appreciative, bordering on lewd, audience she could be from her position in the recliner.

By the third song, he was down to his pants. He was a good-looking man with a fine body, one she very much wanted to feel against hers.

She cheered and clapped as the music died and the screen went dark. He bowed.

“Come here, Doctor FeelGood! I’m in need of an examination.”

“Home visits are my speciality.”

She was thankful that she’d chosen the shirt-dress this morning. She made quick work of the buttons and parted the two sides. He climbed onto the recliner like some species of jungle cat perched on a limb, hovering above her, bending low to kiss her mouth and neck.

That tongue of his was divine! Really, Sherlock Holmes was something of a blessed idiot if he wasn’t using that massive intellect of his to bed this man at the first opportunity. She reached up and ran her hands along his neck and shoulders, sinking her nails into his skin when he found a particularly delicate spot.

“Your tongue is incredibly therapeutic, Doctor.”

“Feeling its benefits?” he said.

“Immensely.”

“Shall we make a change of venue and continue the course of treatment?”

“We could. Or perhaps…” She pushed him gently. “Stand back, Doctor Watson.”

Honestly, when she had selected the chair, she had not considered its possibilities as a sex aid, but now, of course, it was obvious.

It was obvious to him as well because by the time her feet were touching the floor, the rest of her tilted back at a slight angle and supported by the chair, he was kneeling before her, peeling her out of her knickers, tights, and half-slip.

“Pain?” he asked.

“God, no.”

And with that, his mouth was on her.

Christ! Sherlock Holmes was a bloody fool!

“Doctor, Doctor, Doctor.” She laid her hands on the back of his head.

He stopped, and she felt his smile pressed against her inner thigh. “You could call me ‘John.’”

She really couldn’t. “You could call me ‘Martha.’”

Yes, returning to the business at hand was the best response. She closed her eyes and gave herself over to that clever tongue. His teasing pressure on her clit was perfect, so perfect she didn’t really want to come, didn’t want it to end, but her body betrayed her.

She gave a whimpered cry and bucked into his mouth. He was on his feet in an instant, strong arms around her, holding her tight.

He did so feel like a knight-errant!

Was it weakness to cling to him like this? To want to rest in his embrace and let the sheer strength of him surround her?

Perhaps.

She pulled back and slid a hand between them, caressing his cock through the damp fabric of his pants. His wasn’t as long but it was thicker, much thicker, than either Holmesian specimen. Handsome, no doubt, but perhaps something she’d rather have in her hand than in her cunt. Sherlock might think it a challenge, but she knew her own limits well.

He groaned at her touch.

“Bedroom?” she suggested.

He nodded.

* * *

“What would you like?”

“I’m yours to do with as you will.”

She knew that would be his answer, but he had been so polite, so helpful, as she’d made her bedtime preparations that it would’ve been very bad form not to make the offer.

“I want to bring you off with my hand. Come on me?” The flannels and lube were already there, and she’d always had a soft spot for a money shot.

“My pleasure.”

“What a handsome prick!”

And it was. Thick as she’d anticipated. Veined. Engorged. Dusky.

She liked the feel of it in her hand as she pumped. Solid. And so responsive! It twitched and trembled, and she was reminded of a powerful steed being held back by reins frayed-to-snapping.

“Thank you,” he panted.

She was comfortably ensconced amongst pillows at the head of the bed and he was straddling her, keeping his hands behind his head as she requested.

“Close your eyes,” she said, and he did. “Just feel my hand and enjoy and let your mind wander.”

Oh, how far had she come! Young Martita would have cut a man’s wardrobe to bits if she’d thought he was thinking of anyone but her during sex. One of the nastiest rows with Marcelo had been about just that. And here she was, practically asking her lover to fantasise about someone else.

A certain someone else, of course.

That was the wisdom of age, she supposed. She was quite satisfied with the nice handsome prick in her hand, the nice handsome physique heaving before her—beautiful nipples, she would definitely have to lick those—and he got permission to desire what he desired.

“Oh, oh, oh.”

He dribbled onto her chest in two spurts. His eyes were still shut, and he had fallen forward, one hand braced against the wall above her.

When he opened his eyes, her heart broke because she knew his shameful expression had nothing to do with her.

“Cannabis,” he said. “It affects me.”

Oh, Doctor Watson. I am sorry for this, but I never got anything but heartache by lying to myself and I won’t let you either.

“Strawberry extract. One year past the expiry date. That’s what drove me to the shops today. I have four dozen meringues to make by Sunday.”

His jaw dropped.

“Placebo effect, Doctor.”

He was still frozen

And in that moment, she gave thanks that she was British. She didn’t need a lot of flowery phrases or erudite vocabulary to say what she wanted to say. She only needed one word.

“Tea?”

“Yes, please.”


	4. Y Señora Hudson También

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Hudson sleeps upstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set after the attack in "The Scandal in Belgravia."

_“She’ll have to sleep upstairs in our flat tonight. We need to look after her.”_

_“Of course.”_

* * *

 

She dropped the vibrator and bottle of lubricant in her toiletry bag.

The way they both looked at her. The way they did not look at each other.

It was New Year’s Eve. A time for new beginnings.

If she had to be a conduit, an instrument, to put it crudely, a device, so be it.

Left to their own devices, who knows how long it might take!

One could never be certain how things might turn out, of course she would do her best and place the outcome in the hands of Providence.

* * *

John was waiting. She took his offered arm, and he led her upstairs.

“Would you like Sherlock’s bedroom? One less flight of stairs.”

“Yes. Thank you. Let me just…” She gestured to the toilet.

“Of course. Would you like tea?”

“No, thank you. I’ll just be a minute.”

“Take your time.”

She heard them over the running water.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“I am going to look after her.”

“Like hell you are. _I_ am going to look after her.”

“It’s my room.”

“You’re in no fit state—“

“And what state would that be?”

“Irene Adler is alive. There’s much more going on here than just photographs, with you and with that bloody phone.”

“How does any of that relate to—“

“I’m not going to let you—“

“Let me what?”

“Hurt her. She’s been through a terrible ordeal.”

“WHY WOULD I HURT HER?! You’re the one who feels the need to proclaim his sexuality at the top of his lungs! ‘I’m not gay!’ ‘We’re not a couple!’ I should be worrying about _you_ hurting her!”

“You’re mad!”

She opened the door.

“It’s New Year’s Eve. I’ve had a long day. I’m sure Sherlock will be fine company until I fall asleep.”

“No,” said John. “If Sherlock’s keeping you company, then I’m there as well.” He did look so adorable when he was being stubborn. That chin! “If that’s okay with you, of course,” he added hastily.

“Well, that’ll be cosy,” she said, patting both of them on the shoulder as she crossed into Sherlock’s bedroom.

* * *

“What are you doing?!” cried John.

“This is how we keep each other company.” Sherlock threw off his dressing gown and climbed into bed clad in pyjama bottoms and a threadbare vest. He curled up next to her and glared at John.

“Fine,” said John. He stomped down the hall.

Beneath the covers, Sherlock took her hand. She looked down at him.

Oh, the poor boy!

She wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pressed a kiss to the side of his head. “Don’t worry, love,” she said. “It’ll all be sorted by midnight.”

The stomping grew louder.

Oh, my!

Red pants. And nothing else.

“Well, _this_ is how we keep each other company!” said John with his hands on his hips. Then he climbed into bed from the far side.

Sherlock squeezed her hand. She squeezed back.  

“Sherlock, if you would, the lamp? Thank you. See? Nice and cosy. Thank you so much for looking after me. You really are the kindest pair of…”

She nestled down into the covers, and Sherlock and John followed suit. She rolled to her side, facing Sherlock.

Sherlock whispered, “Mrs. Hudson, I shan’t let that gnarly-knobbed gnome take advantage of you!”

“What did you just call me?!”

She reached back and put two fingers to John’s lips. His kissed her fingers and stayed mercifully silent while she said,

“Now, Sherlock, Doctor Watson’s stature may be slightly below the average for a British male—“

“More than one standard deviation below the mean,” said Sherlock.

“Now, wait a minute,” said John.

“—but his member is not. And it is not gnarly at all. It is, in fact, a thick, fat, athletic-looking specimen. Reminds one of a Spartan warrior. Of course, it isn’t like yours at all, Sherlock. It isn’t long and lean with a lovely aristocratic curve to the left that really hits one just where it should. We’ve got all sorts round here, and that’s how it should be. Now, not another word about it from either of you.”

Well that shut them up, didn’t it?

“Good night, boys, and thank you again.”

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes.

* * *

In less time that she’d anticipated they were both half-hard and rubbing slowly and gently against her. Sherlock buried his face between her neck and the pillow while John nuzzled at her nape.

Sherlock placed one hand on her hip. As John began to thrust a bit harder, his hand sought the same spot as Sherlock’s.

Sherlock pulled his hand back as if burnt. “Mrs. Hudson, John is not gay.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake! I only said that because—“

“Because you’re not gay?!” hissed Sherlock.

“Because _Irene Adler_ is the last person, not the first, with whom I am going to discuss my private life. Since her ‘death,’ you’ve been heart-broken, lovesick—“

“Ridiculous!”

“Oh, what do you call it when you compose sad songs on your violin?”

“I call it thinking! Playing the violin helps me think!”

“I hate what she’s done to you, doing to you. You care for her, fancy her, love her, want her, I don’t know what it is, but whatever it is, it makes me ill.”

“YOU ARE AN IDIOT!”

“So you tell me, every day.”

“She’s a puzzle. Just like Moriarty is a puzzle. I like puzzles. And to solve puzzles, I need to think!”

“Seeing the way that she’s toying with you, I realised that...”

Say it, love.

“…that I’m so jealous, I can’t breathe.”

Good.

“Because she has my attention?” His voice was soft.

Good!

The reply was even softer. “Because she has your affection. Of course, we’re a couple. That is, we were. Before she appeared. She’s clever; you like clever; I’m not clever. She’s a puzzle; you like puzzles; I will never be a puzzle.”

She was holding her breath.

Love, here it is. Your opportunity.

“John, you are not a puzzle.”

Oh no!

A bitter sigh. “I know. You put all the pieces together in the first moment we met…”

“You are _everything_.”

John’s hand had not moved from her hip. Suddenly, the weight there was doubled.

She exhaled.

“You don’t mean…”

“I never say things I don’t mean, John.”

Well done, love.

The silence was broken by a quiet chuckle. “No, I guess that would be me. I’m sorry that my words hurt you. I spoke out of anger, spite.”

“Thank you,” said Sherlock. He kissed the underside of her chin.

“For?” asked John.

“Not _you_ , idiot.”

“Oh, right.” The neck of her nightdress was being tugged aside and a mouth began licking at the exposed skin. “I think we both know who the true genius of 221 Baker Street is.”

Sherlock hummed.

Their joined hands were moving down to the hem of her nightdress and lifting it.

* * *

Well, all’s well that ends well. Now, how to spend the rest of her New Year’s Eve?

She ruled out retreating downstairs. Sherlock was ridding her of her nightdress, and John was easing her knickers down. Both cocks brushed against her bare skin.

The idea of taking them both at once, Sherlock in her mouth and John in her cunt, made her wet. But she realised, with some humility, that it was _the idea_ that was arousing her and that the reality, well, the reality could very well fall a bit short of fantasy. Far short, in fact.

They were fondling her breasts and mons, caressing her skin with their lips. It was gratitude, she knew, but no less beautiful for that.

Love was love, in the end. She loved them. They loved her.

Being roughed up by a thug, the baking and cleaning she’d done before the roughing up, plus all the police business afterwards had made for a long day, and what she really wanted was…

Ah, yes.

“Boys?”

They stopped. Two sets of eyes were on her.

“It’s been a long day…” she began.

“You’re not leaving!” cried Sherlock.

She patted his cheek. “No, but if I might make a request...”

“Anything,” said John.

Sherlock nodded.

“I want to watch you together, to direct you, while I look after myself.” She gestured to her dressing gown with the deep pockets.

They stared at her, then they looked at each other and smiled.

* * *

In a few minutes, she was ensconced at the head of the bed with her device and lube and Sherlock and John were before her, kneeling on the bed, facing each other.

“John, remove Sherlock’s vest. Slowly.”

“Oh, God, you’re gorgeous,” breathed John as he brought the garment over Sherlock’s head.

“Nipples, John.”

John smiled. “My pleasure.”

Sherlock groaned. “May I touch him?”

“Yes, but not the scar.” Not everything need be shared tonight.

Sherlock’s hands roamed over John’s head and torso. Cataloguing archiving, exploring.

John smiled wide around Sherlock’s pebbled nipple. “Biting, okay?” he asked. She looked at Sherlock, who whimpered.

“Yes,” she said.

She put a hand between her legs. They were so beautiful, she might not even need the vibrator. A bit of clit play and she’d be reeling. Perhaps, twice.

“John, sit back, legs open.” Sherlock made to follow him. “Sherlock, stay, hands by your side.”

John smirked.

“Palm yourself, John.”

The front of John’s pants were soaked, bulging. His eyes met hers, and he grinned. Then he looked at Sherlock.

“You want this, Sherlock?” he teased, his hand moving up and down. “This thick, hard cock.”

Sherlock whined. “Yes.”

“What do you want exactly?”

“I want to suck it, swallow it, gag on it. I want in deep in my arse, fucking me, splitting me open.”

Oh, God. She definitely didn’t need the vibrator.

“Show him, John.”

John yanked down the front of his pants, and his erect cock sprang free.

She and Sherlock groaned.

“Pants off, John,” she said with a strained voice. “One dry stroke while you play with your balls.”

He did so, looking straight at Sherlock. Then he licked his lips.

Oh, he was a born tease! Doctor FeelGood, indeed!

Sherlock was bouncing on his heels. “May I? May I, please?”

“Suck him.” But before the words had even left her lips, he was swallowing John’s cock and coughing.

“Easy, easy,” said John. He looked at her. She made a motion with her hand, and she knew that he had understood when he wove both hands into Sherlock’s hair and began guiding him. Then he was stroking that lovely hair, petting it.

Good boy.

Sherlock groaned around John’s cock, and John threw his head back. “Oh, God, he’s so good. So unbelievably good. Such a good boy!”

She watched them, two hand beneath the covers, playing with her clit. She pushed one, then two fingers, inside her cunt, thrusting in time with Sherlock’s movements. She came quietly, with neither of them showing any signs of noticing or halting the scene.

“Lick, Sherlock.”

Sherlock pulled off John’s cock and dipped his head lower. John slowly stroked his shaft, using Sherlock’s spit and his own pre-come to smooth the motion. “Love having my, uh, oh God…”

“Do you want to fuck his arse, John?”

Sherlock squealed. John bit his lip, then said, “I want to. Christ, I want to, but…”

“Sherlock,” she said.

He sat back on his heels. He turned to her, eyes and mouth begging, “Please, please!”

“Prep him well, John.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

* * *

By the time, John was fully sheathed inside Sherlock, they were all teetering on the edge.

Sherlock was pressed into the bedding, a pillow under his hips. John was behind him, his whole body visibly quivering with the strain of holding himself in check.

John leaned forward. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock turned his head. “John, John, John.”

If she’d spoken, her words would’ve been as slurred as Sherlock’s. She nodded when John looked back at her.

Her clit was already swollen again, and the slicked vibrator was inside her, humming. Oh, God. She squeezed her thighs around it as John began to thrust.

She’d thought watching John slowly and carefully stretch Sherlock’s arse had been the most erotic thing she’d ever seen, but she had been wrong. It was the _second_ most erotic thing she’d ever seen. This, these two beautiful boys fucking, was it.

The three of them moaned aloud.

She was coming, and so was John. She was amazed that he’d remembered her instruction to come on Sherlock’s back.

Her first money shot. Gorgeous.

Then John flipped Sherlock like a pancake and took his cock in his mouth. One, two, three bobs and he pulled off. Sherlock came on his own stomach.

Her second money shot. Lovely.

John bent his head and raked a long tongue through the come.

“More of that,” she said.

As John licked, she caught Sherlock’s half-lidded eyes. He smiled at her.

Oh, her beautiful boy! She’d never seen him so at peace, content, happy, even.

John, ever the helpful one, was up in a flash and back with flannels for everyone. Her bottle of lubricant and vibrator went back in the dressing gown pocket, and they all settled back as in the beginning, but if it were possible, even closer. Sherlock was rolled in a ball, nestled against her front, and John was plastered to her back.

“Happy New Year, boys,” she sighed.

Two heads popped up.

John said, “I completely forgot about—“

She looked from one to the other. They were grinning at each other like naughty schoolboys.

“What? Oh, boys! Boys!”

They disappeared beneath the covers.

“Oh, oh, oh! Naughty boys!”

A tongue in her cunt and in her arse! Happy New Year, indeed!

But the more they lapped, the more she thought, the day hadn’t been that long, really, and she wouldn’t mind starting the new year sucking Sherlock’s cock while John fucked her from behind…and then perhaps Sherlock might be persuaded to bugger John’s handsome arse…and then a proper wash, perhaps together…

Oh the possibilities!


	5. Five Times Mrs. Hudson Called Scotland Yard & One Time Scotland Yard Called Her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because every story needs a good old-fashioned romance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade have a nice moment in TAB. After trying everybody else on, I think I actually ship them. I have this image of them slow-dancing to Dean Martin's "Volare" while the meringues bake. And after all, he’s dishy, down-to-earth, mature, and helpful when Mr. Chatterjee breaks your heart. A bit boring, but we’ll more than make up for that in the next chapter (Sneak peek: The Demon of Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson/Moriarty).

**One**

“Is this Detective Sargent Lestrade?”

“It is.”

“My name is Martha Hudson. I’m a British citizen currently living in America, Florida, specifically. Are you a friend of Sherlock Holmes?”

“I don’t know that he has any friends, but I’m probably the closest thing. Is he there? I wondered where he’d got to after—“

“Yes, he’s here. He’s been assisting with a matter related to my husband. He’s a dear boy, brilliant, talented, sweet, but, uh, troubled.”

“Yeah, I know all about his troubles. Let me speak with him.”

“He’s indisposed at the moment.”

“Indisposed?”

“Yes, um, I went through his things and found a card with your name and number. Do you know if he has family?”

“There’s a brother, but they aren’t on the best terms.”

“He needs to go home as soon as possible. Miami is not the place for him, and I am not in a position to help him as I might, as I would like to.”

”That bad, eh? All right. I’ll work something out.”

“Thank you so much. You sound like a nice man. He’s lucky to have someone like you in his life.”

“I have my moments. You sound like a nice lady.”

“You’re wrong. I’m not nice and not much of a lady. I will be one day, when my nightmare is over. For now, I just want to make sure that he is being looked after properly. There’s so much potential in him, but so much pain.”

“I know. I worry about him, too. Give me your information, and I’ll be in touch.”

* * *

She put down the newspaper and went to the bedroom. After a few minutes of rummaging in a box in the closet, she found what she sought and slipped it in her pocket.

She cracked the door as he passed. “Detective Inspector?”

He stopped and turned. “Yes. Are you his neighbour?”

“Landlady.” She smoothed her dress.

As he walked towards her, he pulled a white card from his wallet and held it out. “He give you any trouble, you call me, anytime.”

She took the card. “Thank you. I can add it to my collection.” She produced a similar card from her pocket.

He stared. “What—?”

“My name is—“

“Martha Hudson,” he said.

“You have a good memory!”

“I’m good with names, faces, voices. Helpful in the job. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

“I’ve got to go, but I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other.” He smiled. “Looks like you did turn out to be a nice lady.”

“You have a _very_ good memory.”

“Glad your nightmare’s over; someone’s ought to be. I meant what I said: any trouble, call me.”

She nodded and waved as he left. Then she closed the door and leaned against it, sighing.

She must tell Marie: her Sherlock had got himself a _very_ handsome guardian angel!

* * *

**Two**

“Lestrade.”

“Detective Inspector?”

“Yes, uh, Mrs. Hudson?”

“Please call me Martha. I’m so sorry to bother you, but you did say to call if there was trouble.”

“Are you in danger?”

“No, but Sherlock has a visitor. Lots of robes, scarves, I didn’t even see his, or her, face.”

“He attracts odd characters.”

“There’s noise upstairs. Fighting. Normally, I wouldn’t think anything, but Doctor Watson’s gone out to the shops. It might Sherlock’s baritsu instructor, but…”

“Yes?”

“He had a scimitar! And Mister Barton-Wright never comes armed!”

“I’m sending a uniformed officer right away, and I’m right behind him. Lock your door and do not come out until I knock.”

“Thank you!”

* * *

  **Three**

_“It was a real shame. I liked her. She taught you how to do your colours.”_

_“Colours?”_

_“You know what goes best with what. I should never wear cerise, apparently. Drains me.”_

“Lestrade.”

“Detective Inspector?”

“Yes?”

“Is this a bad time?”

“Uh, yes, a bit, but what have you found out about the suspect?”

“Oh, I see. I, um, have the _information_ you requested.”

“Thank you.”

“I have _the whole file_ ready whenever you want to pick it up.”

“I might need some hands-on assistance making sense of it and with next steps.”

“Are you asking me to go shopping for clothes with you, Detective Inspector?”

“Yes! I’m glad we understand each other. I’ll make arrangements at the first convenient moment. Thank you!”

“You’re very welcome.”

Four

“Hello, Martha. How are you?”

“Very well, thank you. You sound relaxed.”

“Night off. Place to myself. Peace. Quiet.”

“That’s wonderful. I just wanted you to know that your trousers were ready.”

“Already hemmed? Not a bother, I hope? I told you that you needn’t—“

“It was nothing. I had such a nice time, and lunch was so lovely, I wanted to do something—“

“I had a nice time, too. I really enjoyed—“

“OH YOU BLOODY BEAST!”

“Uh, excuse me?”

“Oh, I’m sorry! I agreed to keep a dog for Mr. Chatterjee while he finishes up his bookkeeping, and the horrid thing just ate the four dozen meringues I’d made for the church bazaar tomorrow! I’ve got to get more eggs and at this hour, good Lord! Good-bye, Detective Inspector.”

* * *

“Detective Inspector!”

“Just Greg tonight. This the beast? Pit bull?”

“I don’t know. I don’t care. I’m taking him back before he destroys the whole flat. Come, Tippy!” She pushed past him, dragging the dog by the lead.

He was still waiting by the door when she returned.

She waved upstairs. “They’re home.”

“Here to see you.” He held up a bag. “Eggs.”

“Oh, you angel!” She kissed him on the cheek.

He smiled. “I could lend a hand if you’d like. I quite like baking. No real time to do it, what with the job. Wife’s at some kind of teachers’ meeting tonight. They usually go out for drinks afterwards so, I thought I’d like some pleasant company and thought maybe you would, too.”

“Sounds lovely. Please come in, but you’ll have to excuse the mess. That dog!”

“Ought to call him Sherlock,” he said, grinning.

“Done,” she said, removing the last batch from the oven.

“May I ask you a personal question?”

“Of course.”

“Is that a vibrator?”

“Sherlock, such a dear, gave it to me as a gift, but it is far too powerful to be used for its intended purpose. I mean, really, I would injury myself gravely if I even attempted it, but it is perfect for whipping egg whites into beautiful clouds. Please don’t tell him; he’d be crushed.”

He laughed and shook his head. The radio crackled. “Oh, I always liked this song. One dance before I leave?”

He really was an angel.

She nodded. He moved closer, taking her hand in his and wrapping his arm around her waist. He sang softly,

“ _Volare, oh, oh. E cantare, oh-oh-oh-oh. Nel blu, dipinto di blu_ …”

* * *

**Four**

**Help**

He snarled at the phone, spinning it like a top on the table. “I turned the phone off because I was with the bloody divorce solicitors!”

“It’s all right.”

“I was rushing here when Sherlock called.” He swallowed. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’m fine, a few cuts and bruises, but nothing serious. They’ve taken my statement. Everyone’s been very kind.”

“They’d better be. I can’t even offer you a place to stay because I’m between addresses at the moment.”

“Don’t worry. The boys have offered to look after me tonight upstairs.”

“That suit you?”

She nodded. “I think they need a bit of help.”

He shrugged and sighed. Then he gave her a serious look and asked, “Do you ever get tired of the mothering?”

What an extraordinary question! Did she? The answer was a surprise even to her own ears.

“Yes. Sometimes.”

He put his hand on hers. “I’m very glad you’re safe, and I’m gutted that I wasn’t there for you.”

“You’re here for me now. Thank you, Detective Inspector.”

* * *

**Five**

“Hello. It’s Martha. I was sorry to hear about your living situation, and you know us landladies, me, Marie next door, and a few others have quite the little network. There are a couple of possibilities if you’re still in the market for a new address. I’ll send you the information. Hope it helps. Bye.”

* * *

**One**

“Hi. It’s Greg. I just wanted to thank you for helping me find a new place to live. I’m moving next weekend, and once I get settled, I was hoping you’d let me take you out to dinner. Let me know when and where. Thanks again.”

* * *

“Everything okay with Mrs. Hudson?”

“I think so. She spending a lot of time with Mr. Chatterjee these days.”

“Pinning her hopes on a cruise. But it's unlikely as he’s got a wife in Doncaster that no one knows about. Well, nobody but me.”

“Have you told her? Bloody hell, Sherlock!”

* * *

His words played over and over in her mind.

_I never said that…I always enjoyed our little chats, but…You’re mistaken…A woman of your age…_

A woman of her age. Old, he meant, but he was as old as she was! Why was the grey in _his_ hair distinguished and hers only dotty? And, why, oh, why had she picked him, of all people, to be the object of an adolescent crush?

She knew why. Because in a certain light, at a certain angle, when his head was turned just-so, he looked so much like Marcelo it took her breath away. And you never forget your first love.

But just like Marcelo, he’d played her for a fool. Worse because at least Marcelo had married her and attempted to make a life with her, but this man, well, he was just playing.

She had plenty of playmates if that’s what she wanted. Sometimes it _was_ what she wanted, but sometimes…

_Knock, knock_

Good Lord. Why was it that people came calling _after_ one was well into a good cry?

Oh, no. She was not at home to a handsome Detective Inspector.

“Mrs Hudson?” The voice was loud.

_Knock, knock._

“Martha?” The voice was much softer.

Oh, well. Let him see the wreckage.

“Yes.”

“Are you okay?” His brow was furrowed with concern.

“I’ve had better days.”

“Tea?”

Ah, the magic word.

* * *

“So a wife in Doncaster?”

She sipped and nodded. “Also Islamabad.”

His eyebrows rose.

“And Paris.”

“Quite the jet-setter! That’s a lot of sandwiches.”

“Yes, I have no idea how he supports all of them.”

He hummed.

“There’s no fool like an old fool,” she said bitterly as she stared into the bottom of the cup.

He put his hand on hers. “I don’t think you’re a fool at all, and anytime you’d like to have that dinner, you’ll let me know.”

“Don’t you worry that people will think you’re out with your mother?”

“Frankly, I don’t give a damn what anyone thinks about it but you. But,” he brushed the side of her face and kissed her lips so softly she almost wept, “I’m not going to press the invitation right now. Finish your cry. I’ll be back tomorrow, maybe the next day, and then we’ll see.” He kissed her again. “Good night, Martha.”

* * *

_BANG, BANG!_

“Mrs. Hudson? Are you okay?”

“Hello, boys.”

“We just came back and saw the police car!”

“Mr. Chatterjee, John. You found out about the wife in Islamabad, but there must be something more. They don’t usually flash the lights and sirens for a bigamist.”

“He also had a wife in Paris—,“ she began.

“Ha! You don’t know everything, Sherlock!” cried John.

“—but it was the dog fighting scheme and some, uh, high-profile financial irregularities, which I believe are of more interest to the authorities.”

“I always wondered how that shop stayed in business. The sandwiches were awful,” said John.

“Indeed.”

“Well, you must be crushed, Mrs. Hudson. I know you had your hopes up for a cruise. You’re welcome to sleep upstairs tonight. Isn’t she, Sherlock?“

“Absolutely.”

“Um…”

She didn’t turn her head, but rather felt him come to the door, standing just behind her. He put his arm around her shoulder.

“Evening, lads,” he said.

Their jaws dropped.

“She’ll be just fine right here,” he said. “As the Yanks say, ‘There’s new sheriff in town.’ Run along, now, and be good boys.”

He closed the door.

She turned. “They didn’t see that coming, did they?”

“Not a bit of it.” He took her in his arms and kissed her soundly. “Let’s have dinner.”

She smiled. “And then, let’s have sex.”

“Excellent plan.”

* * *

Finally! A man with hair on his chest! Not that there was anything wrong with smooth skin, but still, it was a nice reminder that you were with a man, and it felt so lovely when brushed against you skin.

Like that. And that.

She sighed. He was kissing her neck. She clung to him. He was a human furnace, putting out warmth enough for two.

She ran her hands down his back and to the front of his trousers, undoing his belt. He stood and removed the rest of his clothes, saying,

“Just a warning. Got a bit of a paunch and a bad lower back.”

“I’ve got a hip.”

“No acrobatics, then.”

“No.”

“Just a good solid shag.”

“Perhaps more than one?”

“There’s my girl.”

* * *

At the risk of sounding like nursery tale character, she had to admit his cock was just right. Thinner than Doctor Watson’s, thicker than Sherlock’s, and, of course, much more satisfactory than Mycroft’s all around.

“This is going to feel very good inside,” she said as she coated the shaft with lubricant.

“Couldn’t agree more. Lie back, love. Want to get you just as wet.” His mouth was on her, kissing, licking, moving from neck to mons in an almost worship manner. He suckled at her clit beautifully, and she opened her legs wide, pushed up into his mouth for more.

He held her thighs firm and mumbled, “Careful. No injuring yourself in round one, not when we’ve got the whole night ahead of us.” She shivered.

She liked games. She liked play. But there was something nice about lying back and being expertly fucked as she was now. The way a man knelt in front of you, with that lovely expectant look on his face, just before he sank that delicious—and it was delicious, she had had a long taste—cock into you.

And, oh, his cock _was_ just right! She rocked her hips as he thrust inside her.

And that hair! She reached up and rubbed the centre of his chest.

“Lovely,” she sighed.

“You’re an angel,” he said.

She tightened her muscles around him, and he grunted. “Won’t last long, but ladies first.” He slowed his pumping and bent to kiss her lips while his hand slipped between them, teasing her clit. “Martha, love, love,” he breathed into her open mouth.

The sweetness burst inside her, and he resumed his hard thrusting, coming with her name still on his lips.

“You’re a nice man.”

“You’re a nice lady.”

“Want to see how nice I can be?”

“Oh, God, yes.”

* * *

**Bonus**

“It’s me. Sorry, I’m not going to make it for dinner.”

“I suspected as much. Sherlock and Doctor Watson are not home yet. I’ll save you a plate.”

“My angel. Thank you. I might make breakfast if there’s a break in the case sometime soon. Listen, I’ve got ten minutes until the next briefing…” A door shut and locked in the background. “…so why don’t you let me look after you?”

In a flash, she was on the bed _sans_ knickers, dress open, with the lubed vibrator in hand.

“Ready?”

She hummed.

“Close your eyes. Lean back and relax. I’m kissing your neck. Turn it on, but don’t touch yourself yet. I’ve got the control here.” The device hummed. “How about a nice, soft vibe? Brush the underside of your breasts with it. Stomach, too. Yeah? That’s my teeth nibbling. Lick your fingers, make ‘em wet, and play with those beautiful buds, Christ, I’m getting hard thinking about them, dark and pink and pebbled, I want to suck them, Martha. My mouth’s watering. I need them. Wet those fingers good. Think about my tongue swirling. Now, move it down, down, down. Put that soft vibe where you need it. Clit?”

“Yes,” she panted.

“Wish it was my mouth. Loved waking you up yesterday, suckling that swollen clit. So sensitive after we fucked all night. Bury my head between your legs and never come up for air. Tongue-fuck you proper. Feel good, love?”

She could only moan.

“Christ, my cock is hard. I’ll be by tomorrow. Need that gorgeous cunt, that wet, wet cunt. Open, warm, so perfect for fucking. I’m aching for it. Aching to fuck you. Open for me, love. Let me see that beautiful cunt. Slip it inside and imagine me fucking you. Turn on your side. Lube those fingers. Play with that clit while I fuck you from behind.”

She put the phone on speaker and threw it on the bed. Then she rolled to her side. Following his instructions, she toyed with her clit with one hand while she thrust the wand inside.

“I’m turning it up. Okay?”

“Yes! Please!”

“Please what?”

“Please fuck me! Put your hard cock inside me. Make me come, Greg.”

“You need this cock, my angel?”

“Yes, yes, oh, oh, OH!” She let go of the vibrator and thrashed against the bedding awkward. “Greg,” she whimpered.

“One more, just a little one, another sweet little angel fuck for my beautiful angel—“

“Oh, oh, OH, OH!”

As the glow faded, she removed the vibrator and stared at the ceiling.

“Good night, love,” he said.

She murmured a reply, and he clicked off.

She closed her eyes and thought she heard his voice, like a lullaby,

“ _Volare, oh, oh. E cantare, oh-oh-oh-oh. Nel blu, dipinto di blu_ …”


	6. The Demon of Baker Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty's six visits to 221B have nothing to do with Sherlock Holmes. 
> 
> Completely stand-alone. Set in Sherlock's Mind Palace in "The Abominable Bride" 
> 
> All the sex acts in this fic are non-consensual and the result of demonic possession. In addition to the other sex acts tagged for, there is some nursing kink and forced exhibitionism. It is dark BUT Mrs. Hudson and Billy (who I thought was Archie until I actually read the transcript) are BAMF and defeat the demon in the end. There is one reference to the demon eating children.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to vulgarweed and redscudery for creating this collection!

_I’m aware of all six occasions you have visited these apartments during my absence._

_I know you are. By the way, you have a surprisingly comfortable bed._

* * *

“Good morning, Madame. I’m collecting for the Widows and Orphans Fund.”

She did not have time for charity, what with the gentlemen expected back any minute and the new girl not giving satisfaction, but he looked like such a nice young man. With his dark hair and dark brows, sombre suit and earnest expression, he might have been the son that she and Marcelino never had.

Marcelino. She had even less time to think of him, God rest his soul.

She ushered the young man into the kitchen and offered him a cup of tea.

* * *

Later, she wouldn’t be able to recall his words, only his voice, meek and sweet and lilting.

She pressed a coin into the soft palm of his hand.

“Thank you.”

Metal clinked against metal as her coin dropped into his tin. Then he propped his battered case on the edge of the table.

Inside were a dozen brown paper bundles, each tied with a different coloured ribbon.

“Please accept a small token of our appreciation, and do not worry that your donation will be misspent. These were gifts of a gracious benefactor for the express purpose of rewarding the generous. Choose the colour that speaks to your soul.”

What an odd phrase! As if a colour could…

She picked the black. She was, after all, a widow.

He smiled.

* * *

The business of the day was already behind schedule so she did not think of the young man again until nightfall.

The bundle was the last thing she saw before she closed her eyes, and the first when she opened them the following morning.

She reached for it and untied the ribbon.

Stockings. Black. Silk. A matching belt. She put them on and ran a hand along each leg, marvelling how the fabric shimmered. She was quite sure she’d never worn anything so soft, so fine in her life.

She rubbed her legs together.

It wasn't decent!

* * *

Saucers and cups clinked on the tray. Doctor Watson had not even finished his tea! It would be another late evening—or early morning—for her gentlemen. Another adventure!

She rubbed her legs together and smiled and reached for a plate.

And saw him.

“What--?!” The question died on her lips.

The fire created a shadowy silhouette of his approaching figure. He walked towards her and put one finger to her lips.

She did not speak.

Then, with the same hand, he beckoned. “Come. There is much more pleasure to be had.”

She wanted to scream, to lunge for the poker and swing, to claw her way to the door, but her body ignored her mind’s pleadings. Her feet rose and fell of their own volition, following him, step by step by step, until he sank into the large leather armchair. His battered case was on the floor beneath the chair.

“This is for you,” he said. “For your pleasure.”

She gasped.

His suit had transformed into a dark silk dressing gown, the most regal of its kind she’d ever seen—and with Mister Holmes’s taste, she’d seen her share.

As the sides of the gown parted, his cock stood proud and glistening.

He looked down and chuckled, “Oh, my! You are a hungry soul. Come and feast. We shall not be disturbed.”

He stroked his shaft, spreading leaking fluid along its full, thick length until it shone like an obsidian tower in the crackling half-light.

She could not take her eyes from it. It sprung even taller and harder as his fist pumped. She wanted, no, yearned, to touch it and in that moment, it seemed sound to ransom everything she had or was to do so. To touch it with the back of her throat.

She fell to her knees, and he filled her.

His cock filled her mouth, her throat, and her fist, for she was forced to grip the base tight for leverage. As she bobbed, she swirled her tongue, caressing rough skin pulled taut and smooth with engorgement. His sour musk crossed her palette, and she instantly craved it. She pulled off and bent lower, licking his sacs and coarse-haired crevices, seeking more of his scent.

He hummed and lifted his hips. “Sate yourself, my dear.”

She suckled one sac and fondled the other, back and forth, only stopping to bury her nose and mouth in the folds of his thighs until everything she breathed in, everything she tasted, was him.

She took the very tip of his cock between her lips and drank from the dripping slit.

“Yes, yes, yes,” he murmured. “Thirsty, too.”

She licked up and down the length of him until finally he hoisted her up by her shoulders.

“Stand.” The voice was still sweet and lilting, but no longer meek.

She stood.

“Show me my gift.”

She hesitated, then lifted the many layers of her clothing to her knees.

“Beautiful,” he said, with that same quiet chuckle. “But I want to see my gift.”

She raised the garments to her thighs, exposing the juncture of ribbon straps and lace trim.

His eyes flashed. He growled, and she was reminded of the lightning and thunder of a country summer storm.

Then his expression softened.

“I play, too.” He began stroking his shaft again. “My gift, my gift, my gift,” he chanted as he pumped. Her eyes followed his hand. Up and down. “Show me my gift, my pretty gift,” he sang.

When his cock dribbled onto the rug, his fragrance hit her senses anew, and she whimpered. She pulled her garments up to her waist and held them fast with one hand. With the other hand, she reached down and opened her folds, and as she did so, her hips began to sway forward and back involuntarily.

Your gift, your pretty gift, they said. Here’s your gift.

“Yes, yes, yes. Come. This feast is mine.”

She straddled him, biting her lip as he entered her. She was still breathing him in, still savouring him on her tongue, and now he was filling her cunt with his enormous prick.

He caressed her stockinged legs, from thigh to knee. With a thumb, he tugged her bottom lip from her teeth. “We will not be heard. Let me hear your mewling. It feeds me so.” He bounced her in his lap, thrusting up, deeper, past her cunt to claim her entire body.

“Oh, oh, oh.”

“That’s right. More?” Her hips bucked. “Oh, you are not just hungry, you are greedy.” He growled. “Beautiful.” He grew inside her, stretching her walls, pressed into the very core of her.

Her pleasure curdled into pain, and she cried out.

The fire blazed as stream after stream of scalding hot seed shot into her. He was searing her, branding her, burning her from the inside out. Her hands flew to the back of the chair.

“Oh, yes, my dear. That was most satisfying. Thank you.”

She opened her eyes.

He was gone.

It was dark and cold, the fire reduced to mere winking embers. Her eyes adjusted, and she realised that everything in the room was as it had been.

Except her.

She got to her feet, reaching for the back of the chair to steady herself. How many minutes had passed, she did not know, but she straightened, head up, shoulders back, and, step by step by step, walked to the desk and collected the tea things.

* * *

She sat up and groaned. Her sleep had been dreamless and restorative, but her body still ached. No, her cunt ached, stretched and worn by the previous night’s plundering.

The stockings hung on the back of a chair.

No.

She reached for them and groaned.

No!

She put them on, grimacing as she shifted on the bed.

She stood and took a deep breath.

Better.

If she kept on her feet and kept moving, no one, not even the most observant of gentlemen, would suspect that there was anything amiss.

* * *

The gentlemen, as she had predicted, had returned for toast and tea and fresh shirts, and were gone again.

She mounted the stairs slowly. She crossed to the fire and saw the battered case.

“Good evening, my dear.”

He was sitting in the smaller armchair, his dressing gown tied at the waist.

“No!” she cried.

He caught her before she reached the door.

“Stop. Come.”

She trembled as he drew her back into the room.

“Sit.”

She fell into the armchair that he had just vacated, and he dropped before her.

“I am not a monster,” he said softly.

“Aren’t you?”

“Not at all.”

He was so young. She reached out and caressed his cheek.

Smooth as silk.

“I’m a babe in your arms.” His dark eyes bore into her, and she felt his pull, as strong as ever, but, somehow, much softer, much gentler. It tugged at her.

Of their own accord, her fingers went to her neck and began unbuttoning her collar.

He nodded. “That’s right. Suckle your baby boy.”

With her breasts freed, she opened her arms. He crawled into her lap and latched to one pink nipple. She pulled him closer. He was small, fit snugly in her embrace.

The wet heat of his mouth penetrated her and filled her as swiftly and completely as his cock had the previous evening. It was not the charring, consuming heat of the previous coupling; it was a glow that warmed and soothed her, much like the fire in the hearth.

She looked down and brushed his cheek, back and forth, watching his lips as he suckled and swallowed and breathed. She inhaled. A sweeter, milder form of his essence was in the air.

He hummed. Then he pulled off her nipple. “See? This is for you. For your pleasure.”

She cupped her other breast and offered it to him. He took it and sucked hungrily, greedily.

Then she exhaled, long and loud.

* * *

As the clock ticked on, she began to rub her legs together, enjoying the dual pleasures as they mingled and built insider her.

Finally, he ceased his ministrations.

“There is one more bud in need of suckling, my dear.”

He disappeared completely beneath her skirts. She parted her legs and felt him nestle between them.

He opened her and began to suckle anew, in a manner just as soft and tender as with her nipples.

She gripped the arms of the chair and fixed her eyes on the flames in the fireplace as the unseen tongue licked and lapped.

The last thing she saw before closing her eyes and relaxing into his mouth completely was the battered case beside the fire.

Her cry was almost a sigh.

And then he was gone again.

* * *

A week passed. She did not think of him.

She rinsed the stockings carefully and, once dry, rolled them with the belt and tucked them beneath her pillow.

The gentlemen were at home, and the household quickly fell into the rhythm of their habits.

She did not think of him, but her dreams! Oh, her dreams were dark and mysterious, of wanting and being taken, of dark eyes that glittered like cursed jewels and dark silk smooth as sin.

Then a visitor was ushered upstairs. As she collected their tea things, she heard bags being bags packed, and soon there was a carriage for the station at the door.

She could not sleep.

She laid her head down on the pillow and closed her eyes, but the lump was the pea and she, the princess. She sat up and donned the stockings and belt beneath her nightclothes and wrapped her sensible wool dressing gown around herself and went upstairs.

He was standing at the curtained windows.

“Good evening, my dear. So nice of you to join me.”

She pulled her dressing gown around her tighter.

“Yes, there is a decided chill in the air, no? And that won’t do at all.” With a snap of his fingers, a full blaze burst in the fireplace, instantly breathing warmth into the room.

“Come.”

What was this force that drew her to him? She had banished such useless thinking from her mind for seven waking days, but as her feet moved—once again of their own accord—the question rose again in her heart. She knew it to be diabolic for she was well and truly enthralled, possessed, for she let him open her dressing gown and put his mouth upon her neck.

“So beautiful,” he said as he kissed her skin. “And so utterly wanton. Really, it is a shame to keep it so covered, to not share this wanton beauty with the world.”

His two hands were at the front of her nightdress.

The next moments were a blur: the sound of ripping fabric; the fire-warmed air on her almost-nude form; the cold shock of her nipples being pressed to the glass; the glow from the gaslight pushing through the encroaching yellow fog.

“No!” she cried, but she could neither flee nor resist.

He was behind her, pinning her to the window. His arms went around her torso, and his hands gripped her breasts, squeezing and kneading them roughly.

She threw her head back and closed her eyes and squirmed, rubbing her legs together. Not only her breasts, but her mons—framed by the black stockings and belt—was also exposed.

She was wet at the thought of being on display like this, like fruit in a market stall. She became wetter at the thought of being ogled and desired, but only touched by one.

He pulled her back so that his fingers and thumb could flick and pinch her nipple. He growled in her ear, “This show would fetch a hefty price, no? Do you have an audience? Not yet, but soon.”

An audience. Someone in the street below. Watching her.

Her knees buckled.

He pushed her forward, and she whimpered as her nipples flattened against the pane anew. One of his hands went around her waist, holding her upright.

“Here he comes. Oh, yes, he sees you. Of course, he’s smiling. Who wouldn’t? He likes these,” both his hands returned to her breasts and resumed their kneading, “Oh, yes, he does, doesn’t he? He’s looking for a perch. He thinks the yellow fog and the shadow of that side street will protect him, but they won’t.”

His final words were colder than the air opposite the glass, and she shivered.

“Oh, let’s not think about that now, shall we? Let’s give the man his money’s worth.” His hands ran down her stomach and then back up to cup her breasts. She groaned, open-mouthed; her chest heaved, arching into his coarse touch.

His hand returned to her mons, and he spread her lips wide. “There we go. He’s an ignorant sod. Needs crude gestures. Ah, well.” He toyed with her clit until she was trembling and then began thrusting one, then two fingers in her cunt. “Yes, this is what he likes. His prick is out. Oh no, my dear. It is a ghastly specimen, but he’s frigging it was if it were a stallion’s. No, he wouldn’t do for you at all. You’d be thoroughly unsatisfied. I think he’d like a bit of harmonized action for his finale, don’t you?” He gripped one breast and continued thrusting with his fingers. “Oh, there, he’s spent, in one more way than he believes.”

As he pulled her back and yanked the curtain closed, she heard a scream in the street.

He chuckled and shoved her forward onto the desk.

She caught sight of his battered case on the floor beneath them, but spared no thought for it, for he was drawing her dressing gown and ripped nightdress off and taking her from behind.

She moaned.

It was as it had been the first night: a thick, fat, hard cock, abusing, stretching her cunt, a prick so large and violent it threatened to cleave her in two. She wondered how she had ever thought him small because now he was towering behind her, thrusting with delicious speed and power.

Delicious?

“Oh, you wanton beauty,” he said. “More? What is that lovely phrase of Mr. Dickens?”

“Please, sir, I want some more.”

He laughed. “And more you shall have.”

His thighs slapped against hers; the desk squeaked and teetered on its four spindly legs. Later she would note see that her skin bore the imprint of its wood grain, so brutal was the mounting.

He was unrelenting, pounding into her for what seemed an eternity. And then he was coming; his hot streaks licked deep inside her like tongues of fire.

But this time she welcomed—no, she craved—the pain.

She breathed in his scent, and her mouth watered.

“Oh, my dear.” He hoisted her up and angled her so that her back was to the window. “Let’s offer an Act Two.”

She fell to her knees and swallowed his cock, oblivious to the gaslight glow behind her.

* * *

The next night she didn’t even bother with nightclothes. She simply threw the dressing gown over the belted stockings and hurried up the stairs as soon as darkness fell.

He fucked her on the desk with her legs wrapped around his waist. Then he sat in a straight chair at the desk, and she sucked him. Then, pushing his battered case aside, she crawled beneath the desk and offered her rump for another—and another—fucking.

By the time she returned to her own bed, she knew that she was well and truly mad.

And damned.

The black stockings hung on the back of the chair.

Colour of her soul, indeed.

* * *

She closed the door to the privy and breathed slowly through her mouth, consciously trying to slow her frantic heartbeat.

She was mad and damned.

And very foolish.

The gentlemen arrived home unexpectedly. Her only warning had been Billy’s voice ringing out from below.

The first time that he had announced the gentlemen’s arrival at the train station, she’d found the information so useful that she’d compensated him in the form of a half dozen of her butter scones, and, thus, an arrangement had been established.

And she had never been more grateful for that arrangement than today. For had the gentlemen arrived an hour earlier, they would’ve found her, moaning like a whore, face-down on the rug, skirts flipped to her waist, with his prick fully sheathed in her arse and his thick seed dripping from her lips and cunt.

It had to stop.

She had to stop.

She could not stop.

* * *

“NO!”

“You need to be bedded, my dear. Come.”

The gentlemen were in the country, had been in the country for three nights. She’d buried the stockings in her wardrobe, her drawers, in every crook of her bedroom.

But he called to her, night after night; it grew louder, so loud that she could not sleep or eat.

Finally, she’d surrendered.

She’d met him by the fireplace, his battered case on the floor by his heels.

It was a cold morning, and though robust, the fire seemed singularly lacking in warmth. He took her in hand and led her from the room.

No. This was violation.

He stripped her of everything but a thin chemise and the stockings and belt. She let herself drown in him, sucking him, turning on her stomach and then her side so that he could fuck her cunt and arse twice. He came between her breasts, too.

Then he dropped beside her and said,

“This bed is surprisingly comfortable.”

It was comfortable.

The girls—new and old—might help with the rest of the house, but ever since Mister Holmes had established himself as her lodger, she’d looked after his bedroom herself. He slept so very little, the least that she could do was to provide a haven for him when he did chose to slumber.

The bed and sparse furniture were of a dark imported wood; the pillows, of the finest material available and kept soft, clean, and sweet-smelling through much effort.

She saw to everything from the fluffing to the mattress airing to the linen washing. Mrs. Beaton herself could not have created a more inviting space.

It was a labour of love, her love, and to soil it so hurt her more than any act she’d endured.

She lay on her side, eyes closed, feeling the pressure of him at her back. Then she heard something curious.

Snoring.

She looked over her shoulder.

He was asleep.

She said a prayer. And ran.

* * *

She snapped the belt from her waist, then crumpled in front of the fire. She made to peel off a stocking, but it would not budge.

She said another prayer. And ripped.

Her skin came off with the silk.

Her world narrowed to the shrieks emanating from the hall and the pain of her body, but she kept ripping. She threw stockings and belt into the fire as he reached her.

He hissed angrily, eyes wild and menacing. His hands had turned to long spindly claws. She tried to run, tried to stand, but her legs were useless. He loomed over her.

“Mrs. H! Mrs. H!”

“Billy!”

“ARGH!” howled the demon.

The boy struck the demon with fire poker and fled to the far corner of room. The demon turned and plodded towards him.

“The case, Mrs. H! The sweets!”

She grabbed the case and banged it against the hearth. It sprang open, and its contents fell to the floor: bundles, a layer of stiff velvet, then dozens and dozens of paper-wrapped sweets.

He roared as she threw fist after fist of sweets and bundled silk in the fire.

“NO!” Billy cried. “MRS. H! HE’S COMING! STOP! STOP! ARGH!”

She hurled the whole case into the fire just as she felt a claw clamp down on her foot.

“AAARGHHH!” he screamed.

The fire exploded with a WHOOSH!

And then all was silent, save her and Billy’s panting.

“Mrs. H! You killed the demon of Baker Street!” Billy cried.

“Who?”

“Mrs. H, he tricks ‘ems of us that ain’t got mums with ‘em sweets. Then he bakes ‘em in pies and eats ‘em!”

“Oh, Billy!” She looks down at her legs, still raw and bleeding. “Fetch me that cloth.” She nodded to the table.

She and Billy both froze when they heard a door open.

Someone was coming up the stairs. Slowly

Billy said, “I came by to tell you that the gentlemen are on their way.” His voice was even but he reached for the poker.

“Martha.”

“Marie.”

“Mrs. Turner, you all right?” asked Billy.

The woman in the doorway answered him by lifting her skirts to reveal two trembling flayed legs, dripping with blood. “You killed him, Martha,” she breathed. “You killed the demon of Baker Street. Oh, thank you. God bless you, Martha.”

She thought of the bundles and wondered aloud, “How many of us were there?”

It was Billy’s voice that pierced her thoughts.

“Mrs. H, the gentlemen.”

“Oh, yes. Okay, Billy, come downstairs with me and Mrs. Turner, we need medicaments and bandages for our legs. Then serve Mrs. Turner a cup of tea and see to the fire here. I’ll see to myself and then to Mister Holmes’s bedroom and whatever else needs putting to rights. Not a word to the gentlemen, understood? Okay. Are we ready?”

They nodded.

Thank goodness she had let the new girl go today. If the gentlemen noticed anything, it could be blamed on her, the poor child.

* * *

_“Mister Holmes, I do wish you’d let me know when you’re planning to come home.”_

_“I hardly knew myself, Mrs Hudson. That’s the trouble with dismembered country squires – they’re notoriously difficult to schedule.”_

_“What’s in there?”_

_“Never mind.”_

_“Did you catch a murderer, Mister Holmes?”_

_“Caught the murderer; still looking for the legs. Think we’ll call it a draw.”_

_“And I notice you’ve published another of your stories, Doctor Watson.”_

_“Yes. Did you enjoy it?”_

_“No.”_

_She exchanged a look with Billy and followed the gentlemen inside._  

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
